A short knife strikes the wood again and again, trying desperately to come victorious in the battle happening between the boys two hands. The eyes sharp, seeing every inch of the sculpture that is not yet present in our world, but clear in the mind and under the hands of a skilled woodworker. Moon shone especially bright, as if it wanted to see what the boy will come up with this time. In between murdering and killing and hunger and death, it was the only thing he was good at - making something with his own hands. He touched his coin purse, and by the weight of it figured he had only a couple of days left before another gig.
"What'cha thinking? Not enough for a pint?" Bobby asked from under the tent.
"Stop pesterin the boy. Yer croak'll scare off the horses."
A tent stood on a grass field, and a few steps away 4 horses were resting untied. Sleep started to hug Vulc from behind, and slowly reached his eyes. Despite his attempts to finish, the hands were already putting the half-done piece of wood and knife inside his dark blue purse. The boy stood up, brushed the grass and dirt from his trousers, and went straight to the tent.
Bump. Bump. Bump. An older man was hitting his chest with his palm. "...who we are..." the boy was woken up by a ginger middle aged man.
"Ye havin a bad dream? We need to leave at once."
He looked anxious. Far too anxious for a man who dances with madame death every single day. There were a few things he was scared of - mice, speaking to a damsel, and royal guards. Although Vulc shared a similar fate with the man, he did not share his fears, but knew not to object. At least not at the moment.
It took four men quarter of an hour to collect their goods and mount their horses, but it took almost two hours before Colm has calmed down. They rode south, and no one spoke until the sun was right above their heads. Bobby's stomach started to growl and Vulc realized he had not had a sip of water since yesterday. The boy looked at his party. Bobby was short, well-built, had a dark brown hair and something resembling a beard. The scars all over his face worked hard to not allow even a single strand of hair to grow. He looked more like an animal than human, a monster, perhaps. Colm was holding the reins hard, like it was the most precious gem, his face crooked from worry, but otherwise a handsome man. The two were of similar age, but the latter one looked way younger. Lastly, the oldest one in the group - Cort. He had a wide forehead; with his long white hair he looked like a sage from children's books. The boy always wondered whether the old man was an elf, partially because of his looks, but mostly because he could use magic, even if it was only a few tricks. But he spoke very little, which added to the boy's suspicions. Not that he has seen an elf anyway. Noone saw an elf in forever he figured.
"I heard 'em," Colm enounced. "They were talkin 'bout a war."
"In this Lord forsaken place? No royal leaves the cursed castle!" Bobby got off from his horse. "How far where they?"
"6 or 7 miles, in the city."
"Guess there's no job for us left in this part of the world now" the scary man sighed.